


The Emotion(al) War

by A_Tired_Writer



Series: Three Houses Fics [6]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, M/M, Romace, War, and not even explicit, quite literally one line of it, the birefest brush of smut, this is what happens when you put kids in murder school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 01:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Tired_Writer/pseuds/A_Tired_Writer
Summary: Annoyance and adoration. Irritation and love. Both so strong, and yet, Felix had never been so content to feel such emotions war inside his heart—for the man they fought for was more than worth the strife.





	The Emotion(al) War

Felix had rarely spent a day of his life with annoyance and love as separate emotions. For the seven buffoons in his house, those two twists of his heart often became one. A displeased curl of his lip would follow a flutter in his chest when Mercedes would offer to cook him something—by the Goddess, no thank you—or when Annette would scream herself hoarse about just how _evil_ Felix was. Ashe was much too . . . _Ashe_ to hate with any sort of vengeance. Dimitri was a complicated creature—though, the anger that bubbled up in his throat was seldom directed at the prince himself—and Dedue. Well. He was Dedue. There was scant else to say about him, but Felix was alright with that.

It all seemed to come to a head when a mop of fiery hair and easy smile waltzed into the room.

“Sylvain,” Byleth said from her perch behind her desk, “I hope you’re not late because you were off seducing some nobleman’s daughter.”

Sylvain had never been one to blush under the scrutiny of the professor’s gaze. He simply offered a sheepish smile and took a seat, offering some half-assed apology and a promise to be on time from now on. Felix watched closely as the façade loosened at the seams, easygoing laziness slipping into fatigue and—_pain_?

Felix had bigger things to worry about than Sylvain catching his eye. He knew that the question in his gaze was perfectly perceived by his friend, because that smile was back in place and he was being waved off.

Again, irritation and adoration. A truly painful mix.

If Sylvain thought he was about to get away with whatever struggle he was hiding, he was horribly mistaken—and if he thought Felix was about to make this easy for him, the swordsman was more than willing to offer a rude awakening.

“I see you’ve finally reached the peak of lackadaisical disappointment.”

Sylvain didn’t flinch or frown or _anything_—he simply looked at Felix and smiled. Hollow and meaningless. Felix wanted to deck him. The purple of a bruise wouldn’t look too bad against his red hair. At the very least, Felix would get much more satisfaction from it than he did seeing those disgusting, small bruises littered across his friend’s collarbones.

“Here to berate me again, Felix?”

“Why the hell were you late to class?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“If you’re talking about your never-ending need to court everyone in the Kingdom and the monastery, then I suppose it is, but that’s not what’s going on.”

“And _you_ know what happened?”

“I’ve known you for too many years to _not_ notice.” He cast a quick look around, glad the hallway of their dorms was empty. “Sylvain,” he whispered, because that was the only way he could convince himself the softness in his voice was welcome, “what happened to you?”

Sylvain took Felix’s hand in his, unwilling to let go when the latter instinctively tried to yank it away. Curse his strength.

Every pretense was dropped when the door closed behind them in Sylvain’s room. Brown eyes dimmed and fragmented as he sagged against the door, and Felix—he had to cut his nails into the skin of his palms to stop himself from rushing forward.

“I thought—I thought when we finally, _finally_ got rid of the last of Miklan’s bandits, that was going to be the end of it. That bastard would _finally_ stop fucking with my life, but—”

Everything about Sylvain was raw and out in the open. Felix fought with himself, determined not to look away like he wanted to. Sylvain deserved better than that right now.

Sylvain began to pull off his shirt, movements curt and shaky. Felix would love to berate him about the lack of propriety of stripping when he looked so miserable, but the pure white bandages circling Sylvain’s taut waist stole any air right form his lungs.

Remaining undetected by a passerby became the least of Felix’s priorities. “_Sylvain!”_

“A few days ago, my dad caught wind of a couple stragglers left behind by Miklan. Since they were making trouble near Garreg Mach, he asked me to take care of it. I was going to go this afternoon, but—when I was in town last night . . . Well, let’s just say they were a whole lot closer to Garreg Mach than dear old dad had led me to believe.”

Body acting all on its own, Felix stalked over to Sylvain and braced his hand against his shoulder, just above the rough gauze.

“Clearly, this is some sort of divine punishment. My flirting ways are more trouble than they’re worth.”

“You couldn’t stop flirting with everything relatively human-shaped if it killed you.”

“I keep telling Ingrid that it was a _misunder_—”

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares about your philandering.”

And Felix _didn’t_ care—not in that moment. Not when he was choking back nausea at the thought of Sylvain being attacked in some shadowy alley with little time to prepare himself.

Goddess above, why had he been _alone_? Felix had no doubt that, with a lance, Sylvain could easily dispatch of anyone who crossed him, but he was only able to arm himself with a sword when he was at the Academy. A petulant voice in Felix’s head wanted to scream at Sylvain to get on top of his sword skills, but—really, what good would it do him in battle when he was mounted? To train with a sword as Felix did would only dull the skills Sylvain _actually_ needed.

“The guy who attacked me . . . he said he wanted to do right by Miklan one more time. Get rid of the thing he hated most in the world.”

_I couldn’t protect him_. Felix felt an all-too familiar urge to cry, eyes aching and lungs threatening to collapse under all the weight pressing down on them. _I wasn’t there. What good is my training if I can’t protect him?_

Felix had to remind himself of which “him” he was talking about. _Sylvian. Sylvain, Sylvain, reckless, stupid, too good_—

“Keep looking at a man like that and he’ll blush.”

“I should cut your throat out.”

“Kinky.”

“_Sylvain_.”

“Sorry, it—” Sylvain dropped his eyes then, staring at the dip in Felix’s vest. “That’s why I was late. Why I seem so tired. I didn’t sleep.”

“Don’t tell me you went straight from the infirmary to class.”

Sylvain had that sheepish smile again, and Felix wanted to strangle it right off him.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Felix hissed. He scrounged up whatever resembled courage from the corners of his heart and brought his hand up to cup Sylvain’s jaw. Surely that wasn’t in the realm of platonic touching anymore. “This is the most reckless I’ve ever seen you act. And that’s quite a feat.”

A nose scrunch, a furrow of a brow—Sylvain frowned at Felix as he got ready to defend himself. Felix couldn’t look into those eyes that he’d seen his entire life, so he settled for the lips that curled around flirtation after flirtation. Maybe that looked worse to Sylvain, but Felix was already testing the boundaries of what his brain could handle—what his heart could take.

“Do you know,” he said, soft and fragile and _weak_, “what it would do to me if I had to open my door to see your armour, too?”

Goddess above, how pathetic.

“I wasn’t wearing armour.” Sylvain’s tone wasn’t light, words leaden with fatigue and pain.

“Don’t be stupid.”

When Felix pictured his future—a rare occurrence, because one didn’t become stronger by dwelling on what had not yet come to pass—he always imagined Sylvain in it. Sometimes it was as a simple annoyance, others Felix’s dearest friend. Beyond those, however, were dreams unattainable, right along with the wish of ever sparring with Glenn once more—because in those dreams, the ones that were solace in the night and gone by morning, Sylvain pledged his life and love to Felix. It would mean Sylvain being as hopelessly in love with Felix as much as the reverse was true. It would mean Felix getting any semblance of happiness he wanted so badly to enjoy in this life.

Worse still, it would mean loving someone so much that, should Sylvain be taken from him, Felix would shatter, broken beyond repair.

_That would happen right now_, he told himself. _It almost did_.

“I’m about to do something so stupid.”

Felix probably should have said something along the lines of _everything you do is stupid_, but he never got the chance. Warmth was pressed against his lips, a scalding hand laid painfully gently against the line of his waist, and Felix—

_Goddess_.

Never in Felix’s life had he been so at a loss. He could pick apart one instinct from another; one to fight and one to sink into this loving warmth and never resurface—one to defend what was left of his heart and one to offer everything he was.

Sylvain let out a defeated breath, moving to pull away—and it seemed an instinct had finally won out; Felix buried his hands in the mess of red hair he adored so much, barely avoiding aggravating Sylvain’s injuries further. The paladin didn’t seem to mind, gently circling his arms around Felix’s middle to draw him closer, slow and deliberate and _good_.

Felix’s lack of kissing experience was mortifying, but he decided if he just never moved from this very spot, he would never have to see that disgustingly handsome, ruefully playful look on Sylvain’s face. Yes, kissing forever seemed like a perfect plan.

Sylvain disagreed. He finally pulled back, happier now than he’d been before. “Not stupid, then?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Ah, insults—your love language.”

And they were, weren’t they? _If you died, I’d be annoyed_. He’d said that very sentence too many times to count, too many times for all those he said it to to not understand his meaning. _If you died, I don’t know how I’d handle the pain. I can’t do again. I can’t._ How was he supposed to be okay with Ingrid throwing away her life for the same reasons her fiancé had? How was he supposed to sleep at night knowing he’d been one of the people to let Dimitri suffer in silence? How was he supposed to look Mercedes in the eye, knowing she cared for him just the same as one other person had?

He looked at Sylvain now, tears gathering and trailing down his cheeks. He hadn’t cried in so long, but this—it was familiar. Crying in Sylvain’s arms had been a skill long mastered by a young Felix. He’d known just how to crook his head into the soft spot of Sylvain’s neck—it’d always smelled like grass beneath the cologne he’d swiped from his father. He’d become accustomed to the feeling of Sylvain’s noise burying itself in his inky locks, to Sylvain offering tender encouragements as Felix blubbered about Dimitri’s latest character flaw. Honestly, they were beyond miniscule when Felix looked back on them now, but still—being able to burrow himself into the comfort that was Sylvain became second nature.

“I’m sorry, Felix. I know what his death did to you.”

“I don’t want apologies. I want—” His throat squeezed shut, stopping any words from coming out.

What he wanted to say, what his heart yearned to scream, was that he wanted to know Sylvain would come back to him—but even as he thought it, he knew such things were not possible, not in the world they lived in. Hell, their field trips were murder missions. He’d have better luck trying to talk to the Goddess herself.

Despite all of that . . . Felix almost said it.

“What do you want?”

His lips moved. There was nothing to be done about what he said next. “You.”

“This isn’t because I kissed you, right? You’re not trying to spare my feelings?”

“We don’t have time for spared feelings.”

Felix was starting to experience the full extent of his idiocy. Edlegard had waged war on the Church of Seiros, probably wouldn’t stop the bloodshed until she absorbed the Kingdom and the Alliance back into the Empire. Darkness was all that laid ahead of them, and here Felix was, wrapping this warm moment around himself like a blanket—as if nothing could touch him if he just stayed here, where he felt safest.

“You’re right.”

“What are we doing?” Felix asked.

“I think we’re just being . . . human.”

“All the last night trysts have gone to your head.”

“And yet, here you are, in my arms.”

“That can be _very_ quickly rectified.”

Sylvain’s grip tightened. “Don’t.”

Felix huffed, but stayed silent and didn’t move an inch.

“We’re about to be thrown into the fight of our lives,” Sylvain whispered. “_For_ our lives.”

“For our home, too, I’d wager.”

“You think we’ll make it out?”

Felix rolled his eyes. He pressed his nose against that same spot he always had—and what do you know? The smallest hint of grass. “If I knew the answers to questions like that, I’d make my fortune off of predicting the future.”

“I guess you’re right. Like you always are.”

“Someone between the two of us has to have some sense.”

Sylvain tightened his grip further. Maybe he wished to shield Felix from dangers they could not see. Felix did not wish to be protected that way, would rather fight tooth and nail than lay down and take it, but—this . . . It was nice. The sentiment was something Felix could appreciate, at least.

“So, we don’t know if we’re going to live past this month, we just had our first kiss, and I think we’ve just effectively ended our friendship.”

Felix jerked back, a strangled, wounded noise clawing its way forth from his throat. Sylvain cut in before anymore hurt could curl around Felix’s heart. “I mean . . . our friendship doesn’t have to end, but . . . I’d like to add another layer to it. Like the frosting Annette and Mercedes put on their cakes.”

“You did not just compare me to a sweet.”

Sylvain grinned—and holy Goddess above, it was striking. Boyish and loving and simply adorable—Felix really had no clue what to do with himself when he saw that smile. His heart kicked and leaped and soared, and suddenly Felix wanted to taste Sylvain’s lips again.

“I can attest to the fact that you taste like one.”

Felix would have loved to kick Sylvain right in his goddess-damned shin, but he was too busy trying to bury his face and hide his flush. “You’re the _worst_.”

“Faerghus might fall.”

“Fodlan might burn to ash under that woman’s rule; what’s your point?”

“I’ll fight for you.”

Felix nearly let out a yelp, but Sylvain’s arms might as well have been crafted from steel, what with how strongly they were secured around his waist. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“No matter what happens, I’m going to fight to come back to you. I won’t throw my life away; not when you’re waiting for me.”

“Who says I’ll be—”

When Felix pulled back to look Sylvain in the eyes, he really should have expected the raw pain, the vulnerable love Felix _knew_ he could feel. This was the boy who galloped right into danger to save Felix—or anyone, really. This was the boy who was better than he gave himself credit for, who could best anyone at the academy at _anything_, really, but chose not to. This was the boy Felix had shared so much of his life with—the man Felix wanted to spend the rest of it with.

But you’d have to hold him at knifepoint to get that little confession out.

“Okay. Okay, fine, fight for me. Just don’t die.”

“Or else you’ll be annoyed?”

“So very annoyed.”

Before they separated to sleep in their respective rooms for the night, Felix gripped at Sylvain’s wrist. Eyes kept downcast and no chance of getting his thoughts out with any sort of eloquence, Felix forced his tongue to work in his favour. “I’ll fight. To come back to you. I’ll make sure I can.”

They both knew how useless those words were. They could very well burn alive right here in the monastery in two week’s time, but—feeling Sylvain’s hand move to hold his, hearing that small gasp of disbelieving happiness—

Felix could let himself be foolish.

So the Kingdom had stretched to consume all of Fodlan.

“I’ll be damned,” Felix muttered to himself.

Almost a year ago, he’d had to worry about keeping the Kingdom upright. The Shield of Faerghus was chipping around the edges, the royal line teetering on the edge of collapse, the hope of the people long since buried beneath the heavy blankets of snow, never to be seen again. But then the prince returned, and the people rejoiced—and the Shield of Faerghus broke into a million pieces. One of those lost things had to give, he supposed.

But now, Felix took up that mantle, hoping to piece it all back together as he watched Dimitri come back to himself. Not the Dimitri of the Academy, with a fabricated smile and the taste of revenge sitting just so on the tip of his tongue, but the Dimitri who would mess around with Sylvain and Ingrid—though, really, Ingrid would preach appropriate behaviour befitting nobles such as they. The other three . . . To put it lightly, they used and abused the opportunities their parents’ blind eye gave them. Felix wasn’t exactly hoping to go romping through the grass with them all again, because they weren’t children and they’d all changed too much. They’d been ripped apart by things outside their control, refusing to ask for help, to reach a hand into their past and pull out support they weren’t sure would still be there. But now? Now there was the bare bones of friendship, sitting there, waiting to be turned into the lovely bond it’d been before shadows overtook everything they knew and loved.

Byleth had taken up a mantle in the church. They ragged on her every chance they got for the sheer irony of it all; the one person in all of Fodlan who’d never come in contact with the church until their adult years, and yet there she was, leading the whole damn organization. Even Felix had to poke fun at the insanity of it all. Mercedes was in her employ, though she did often bustle about all of Faerghus to help those who needed it. Annette worked at the school of sorcery she’d graduated from, repeatedly asking Byleth for ways to plan effective lessons and encourage her students. Even as a teacher, she found ways to learn.

Ashe and Ingrid were two of Dimitri’s most trusted knights, joining Dedue to make what was probably the most terrifying personal defence force ever assigned to a monarch. Seriously. Felix hoped to the goddess that no one tried to make an attempt on Dimitri’s life, solely because he feared for the annihilation that would descend upon them.

That being said, Felix had his own strong ties with the newly crowned king. As Duke Fraldarius—how _stuffy_—it was his job to act as a consultant to the king, but if he was being honest, he really did enjoy the time he got to spend with Dimitri. Their relationship was still tender around the edges, unsteady and ready to snap at any moment, but they both wanted it to work too much to let it fall apart. Felix still called him “boar” when they were together—though much more affectionately, he could admit—and Dimitri still teased him for all his childhood clinginess, but they liked it. It worked for them.

“You look pretty magical up here.”

Wind lapping at Felix’s hair, the duke stared out over the busy life of Fhirdiad. He decided he should come up to this balcony more often. “Ever the charmer, aren’t you, Margrave Gautier?”

Sylvain had grown his hair out just a touch longer, the top half loosely tied and allowing small pieces to fall, framing his face . . . _quite well_.

“Goddess, Felix, please don’t call me that.”

Felix hid his smile from Sylvain, but he had a feeling it wasn’t all that much of a secret. Not to someone who knew him so well. “Is that not your title?”

“Not to you, it isn’t.”

Felix jumped when arms wrapped around his waist—_threat, move, draw your sword, crack their nose_—but he clamped his lip between his teeth to silence those instincts. This wasn’t war anymore. A touch could be a good thing.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

There hadn’t been much time for this—them. There had been a few shameful nights when Felix had to resort to the last possible method of relaxation, with a hand down his pants and the name of a certain redhead dripping like honey off his tongue. Even more than that was the tugging at his heart, that constriction in his gut when he couldn’t be certain he’d be able to see the end of this war with Sylvain next to him—both alive and, ideally, both victorious. He wasn’t sure if he wanted a future in which Faerghus was no more, or one where Dimitri had not ascended the throne. That was the one thing he’d been banking on throughout that five-year disaster, and even the years prior to that.

A future. He had all the time in the world to think about that now. No more battles to fight, no more enemies to strike down with his blade. He could, of course, hope for some minor disturbance in his territory that would call for the Duke himself to ride out and put an end to it. But that would be selfish; his people deserved better.

Goodness. _His people_. What a phrase.

“Is it strange,” Felix started, voice soft and almost lost in the winter wind, “that I was never ready to be Duke?”

“Because you thought we’d die?”

“That might be a part of it, but . . .”

Rodrigue hadn’t been meant to die. Felix had few pleasant things to say about him, unable to feel too much for the man that had taken all meaning from his brother’s death with a select few words, but still—he’d been Felix’s father.

A few more lessons in the life of a duke couldn’t have hurt.

“How did we get here? Fighter-turned-duke and flirt-turned-margrave?”

Sylvain laughed, a welcome puff of warmth against the nipping cold around them. “You tell me, Felix.”

Felix leaned back against the sturdiness of Sylvain’s chest, knowing full well that years of wielding a lance had done his strength well. And maybe it was the fuel of many a dirty dream, but that was neither here nor there. That strength had been the sole reason Felix walked off a battlefield too many times, though the same could be said the other way round. To maintain his previous lone wolf ways would have proved detrimental to not only his survival, but the rest of his comrades’ as well.

“What do you think the logistics are of two noblemen getting married?”

Felix spun too fast—in his hurry to face Sylvain and lash out for such a strange question, he clocked his head against the taller man’s nose. A cry of pain rang out, and Felix—maybe it was the lack of sleep he’d gotten the night before, but he was fighting back quite a few laughs.

“Sorry,” he said, voice tight with strain. “That’s not—Why are you asking me that?”

“_Ow_.” Sylvain glared at Felix, not an ounce of anger to be seen. “And—I mean. Unless I understood this wrong—”

“Marriage and . . . whatever this is are two very different things.”

“We promised we’d stay together until we died together. I’m almost certain there’s a wedding vow that goes very neatly along with that sentiment.”

“We were kids!”

“And we’ve kept that promise ever since.” Sylvain lowered his hand and stepped back into Felix’s personal bubble, hands braced against his hips as he stared with those intense eyes of his. Goddess, sometimes Felix went dizzy from their sincerity. “I meant what I said all those years ago, that I’d fight for you. It was one of the things that kept me going when I thought I couldn’t anymore.”

“Seems like a silly reason.”

Sylvain flinched, and—_oh_, that was what heartbreak looked like on his face. Felix decided he hated it more than anything else in the world. “That’s not—I’m sorry.” He needed to get used to saying those words, apparently. “I . . . can sympathize. With that.” Felix looked away, off into the sun slowly dipping below the horizon, painting the snowy canvas below them in lovely hues of orange and lavender. “I told myself that if I could just get through this battle, I’d be one step closer to figuring out the best way to spend my time with you. I didn’t know what _that_ meant, exactly, and I certainly didn’t think so far as _marriage_, but—”

It wouldn’t be so strange for them, he thought. He hadn’t once second guessed the promise he’d made to Sylvain, and he didn’t want to. Sylvain might damn well be onto something . . . .

“I’m not saying we’ll get married tomorrow, or even in the near future. But . . .”

And Sylvain, he—Goddess, Felix wanted to see that smile forever; he wanted to wake up to it, kiss it off and put it back, fall asleep knowing he’d get to experience it all the very next day. He wanted to be so irrevocably happy that he had a smile to match it, to be unable to control a grin meant only for the man in front of him. And maybe that was cheesy—so disgustingly cheesy that it should be banished by order of the king himself—but he couldn’t care. Not when Sylvain was living in that cheesiness with him.

“I think I have to change my promise.”

The happiness that had been lifting him above the clouds evaporated, leaving only the ghost of dread to rake its nails against his ribs. “What?”

“It’s nothing bad, Felix, I swear. It’s just . . . Okay, when we were kids, there was our promise. Just before the Emperor invaded, I swore that I would fight for you, to come back and to never leave you alone. But now that the fighting’s stopped . . .” Sylvain’s hands were _so warm_ as they held Felix’s face in place. There was nothing the latter could do to look away, frozen in place as he latched onto every word like a lifeline. “I want—” Sylvain swallowed. Oh. He was _nervous_. “I want to live for you. I want to live for you until I’m no longer physically able, until all the air has gone from my lungs and I’m taken from this world. Only then will I stop.”

Felix wanted to cry. Try as he might to kick that habit, it was just who he was—it was what made acting furious so easy, because he could stuff back the tears in exchange for the closest emotion he could find. Right now, though, there was not a single thing he could think to replace this overwhelming happiness with—so, he cried. He let those cursed tears fall and leave a too-cold trail on his cheeks; he let Sylvain wipe them away, filling him with such a warmth that Felix wasn’t sure they were in Fhirdiad anymore. How was he ever supposed to say something as beautiful as that?

He decided not to try. Instead, he leaned up—this blasted _height_ of his—and tried to pour every ounce of love and adoration he felt for this charming bastard into the kiss he gave. Sylvain made the happiest little sound, and who knew Felix would want to hear something like that on loop for the rest of his days? Knowing that _he_ did that, that he made Sylvain so happy he couldn’t hold back a noise? How was Felix supposed to handle that?

When they parted, Felix had words sitting strange and heavy and wonderful on his tongue. “My blade is yours.”

“I’m sorry?”

He’d _hoped_ no explanation would be needed, but . . . “It will always be there to protect you. Just as I will.” Felix’s face was on fire. He hoped the dimming light of evening was enough to distract from the pink in his cheeks, but Sylvain looked so awestruck that his own embarrassment could wait.

“You said you weren’t good with words!”

Again, heat rushed to his cheeks, staying there as he spluttered over his next sentence. “I’m not!”

“That poetry you just spilled says otherwise!” Sylvain’s dopey grin was more valuable than any bullion Felix had ever laid his eyes on. Sure, he’d never be able to live such a sappy line down, least of all when Sylvain had ben on the receiving end of it—

“I’m going to insist that line of yours goes down in history books.”

“_Sylvain!”_

“Nope, you’ve done it now. The people of the future will look back on us and aspire to have even a fraction of our love.”

“If you find your head shaved clean, you can blame me. _I will own up to it_.”

Sylvain swooped in then, pressing himself closer to Felix’s body and trapping the duke against the balcony’s railing. “Goddess, I love you.”

Felix burrowed his head forward, seeking out that heart that seemed intent on beating strong and steady—as if it knew Felix needed to hear it at any given opportunity.

“You’re the worst.” He sighed. “I love you, too.”

Annoyance and adoration. Irritation and love. Both so strong, and yet, Felix had never been so content to feel such emotions war inside his heart—for the man they fought for was more than worth the strife.

**Author's Note:**

> [Leave me a request?](https://travelling-on-the-octopath.tumblr.com/ask) Preferably Blue Lions, but I've done the GD Route, so that's up for grabs, too. I'm down for pretty much all ships, or none, if that's what you desire.


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